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ISABELLA 
OR  THE  POT 
OF  BASIL  BY 
JOHN  KEATS 


W.  A.  BUTTERFIELD 

bookseller 

59  BROMFIELD  ST. 
BOSTON,  MASS 


LIBRARY 
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jpAIR  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 
Lorenzo,  a young  palmer  in 
Love’s  eye ! 

They  could  not  in  the  self-same  man- 
sion dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some 
malady ; 

They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel 
how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by  ; 

T hey  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same 
roof  sleep 

But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly 
weep.  7 


II 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  ten- 
derer, 

With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer 
still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden 
stir, 

B ut  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing 


fill; 


And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden 
rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his 
name, 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with 
the  same. 


hi 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the 
latch, 

Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his 
eyes ; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he 
would  catch 

Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon 
spies ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he 
watch, 

Because  her  face  was  turn’d  to  the 
same  skies ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night 
outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the 
stair.  8 


IV 

A whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad 
plight 

Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break 
of  June : 

“ T o-morrow  will  I bow  to  my  delight, 
“ To-morrow  will  I ask  my  lady’s 
boon.”— 

“ O may  I never  see  another  night, 
“Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not 
love’s  tune.” — 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows  ; but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  ; 

v 

Until  sweet  Isabella’s  untouch’d  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose’s  just  do- 
main, 

F ell  thin  as  a young  mother’s,  who  doth 
seek 

By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant’s  pain : 

“ How  ill  she  is,”  said  he,  “I  may  not 
speak, 

“ And  yet  I will,  and  tell  my  love  all 
plain  : 

“ If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I will  drink 
her  tears, 

“And  at  the  least  ’twill  startle  off  her 
cares.” 

VI 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his 
side : 9 


And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak  ; but  still  the 
ruddy  tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  puls’d  resolve 
away — 

Fever’d  his  high  conceit  of  such  a 
bride, 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a 
child  : 

Alas ! when  passion  is  both  meek  and 
wild ! 

VII 

So  once  more  he  had  wak’d  and  an- 
guished 

A dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 

If  Isabel’s  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead 
high ; 

She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 
And  straight  all  flush’d ; so,  lisped 
tenderly, 

“Lorenzo” — here  she  ceas’d  her  timid 
quest, 

Butin  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 

VIII 

cc  O Isabella,  I can  half  perceive 

“That  I may  speak  my  grief  into 
thine  ear ; 

“ If  thou  didst  ever  any  thing  believe, 
“Believe  how  I love  thee,  believe 
how  near 

“My  soul  is  to  its  doom  : I would  not 
grieve  1 0 


“ Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing, 
would  not  fear 

“Thine  eyes  by  gazing ; but  I cannot 
live 

“ Another  night,  and  not  my  passion 
shrive. 

IX 

“ Love  ! thou  art  leading  me  from  win- 
try cold, 

cc  Lady  ! thou  leadest  me  to  summer 
clime, 

“And  I must  taste  the  blossoms  that 
unfold 

“In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious 
morning  time.” 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew 
bold, 

And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy 
rhyme : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great 
happiness 

Grew,  like  a lusty  flower  in  June’s 
caress. 

x 

Parting  they  seem’d  to  tread  upon  the 
air, 

T win  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  a- 
part 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and 
share 

Theinwardfragranceofeach  other’s 
heart.  1 1 


TOi>AY  TT10V- WILT • MOT-See  HIM  • MOR 

TO-MORROW’ 

: AMP  • TMC -HCXT  • PAY • WILL  • B€  • A PAY- OF  • 

SORROW- 


Liun/.iif 

OF  rHE 

UNIVERSITY  or  m™  § 


She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a ditty  fair 

Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey’d 
dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a western 
hill, 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy’d 
his  fill. 

XI 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the 
dusk 

Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant 
veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the 
dusk 

Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant 
veil, 

Close  in  a bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 

Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whisper- 
ing tale. 

Ah  ! better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their 
woe. 

XII 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot 
be — 

T oo  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been 
shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in 
fee, 

T oo  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were 
best  be  read  ; 1 3 


Except  in  such  a page  where  Theseus’ 
spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him 
bows. 

XIII 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much 
bitterness ; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 

And  Isabella’s  was  a great  distress, 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm 
Indian  clove 

Was  not  embalm’d,  this  truth  is  not 
the  less — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring- 
bowers, 

Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison- 
flowers. 

XIV 

With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady 
dwelt, 

Enriched  from  ancestral  merchan- 
dize, 

And  for  them  many  a weary  hand  did 
swelt 

In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once  proud-quiver’d  loins 
did  melt 

In  blood  from  stinging  whip  ; — with 
hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the 
flood.  14 


XV 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his 
breath, 

A ndwent  all  nakedtothe  hungry  shark ; 

For  them  his  ears  gush’d  blood  ; for 
them  in  death 

The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous 
bark 

Lay  full  of  darts ; for  them  alone  did 
seethe 

A thousand  men  in  troubles  wide 
and  dark : 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn’d  an  easy 
wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch 
and  peel. 

XVI 

Why  were  they  proud  ? Because  their 
marble  founts 

Gush’d  with  more  pride  than  do  a 
wretch’s  tears  ? — 

Why  were  they  proud?  Because  fair 
orange-mounts 

Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar 
stairs  ? — 

Why  were  they  proud?  Because  red- 
lin’d  accounts 

Were  richer  than  the  songs  of 
Grecian  years  ? — 

Why  were  they  proud  ? Again  we  ask 
aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they 
proud  ? 15 


XVII 


Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self- 
retired 

In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cow- 
ardice, 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  in- 
spired, 

Paledin  and  vineyarded  from  beggar- 
spies  ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the 
untired 

And  pannier’d  mules  for  ducats  and 
old  lies — 

Q uick  cat’s-paws  on  the  generous  stray- 
away, — 

Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and 
Malay. 


XVIII 

How  wasi  t these  same  ledger-men  could 
spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  r 

How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo’s 
eye 

A strayingfromhistoil?  HotEgypt’s 
pest 

Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east 
and  west? — 

Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer 
fair 

Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted 
hare.  1 6 


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XIX 

O eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving 
boon, 

And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the 
moon, 

And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy 
ghittern’s  tune, 

F or  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 

The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a piteous 
theme. 

xx 

Grant  thou  a pardon  here,  and  then  the 
tale 

Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 

There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

T o make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme 
more  sweet : 

But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or 
fail — 

T o honour  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit 
greet ; 

To  stead  thee  as  a verse  in  English 
tongue, 

An  echoof  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many 
signs 

What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister 
had,  1 8 


And  how  she  lov’d  him  too,  each  un- 
confines 

His  bitter  thoughts  toother, well  nigh 
mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  de- 
signs, 

Should  in  their  sister’s  love  be  blithe 
and  glad, 

When  ’twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by 
degrees 

T o some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII 

And  many  a jealous  conference  had 

they, 

And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips 
alone, 

Before  they  fix’d  upon  a surest  way 
To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime 
atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a sharp  knife  to  the 
bone ; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII 

So  on  a pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 
into  the  sun-rise,  o’er  the  balustrade 

Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him 
they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews ; 
and  to  him  said, 

cc  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  con- 
tent, 1 9 


“Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to 
invade 

“ Calm  speculation ; but  if  you  are 
wise, 

“Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  isin  the 
skies. 

XXIV 

“To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we 
mount 

“To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the 
Apennine ; 

“ Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot 
sun  count 

“His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine.” 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 
Bow’d  a fair  greeting  to  these  ser- 
pents’ whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness 

With  belt,  and  spur, and  bracing  hunts- 
man’s dress. 

xxv 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass’d  along, 
Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and 
listen’d  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady’s  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep 
soft; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a laugh  full  musical  aloft ; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features 
bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice, all  de- 
light. 20 


XXVI 

“ Love,  Isabel ! ” said  he, <c  I was  in  pain 

“Lest  I should  miss  to  bid  thee  a 
good  morrow: 

“ Ah!  what  if  I should  lose  thee,  when 
so  fain 

“ I am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

“ Of  a poor  three  hours’  absence  ? but 
we’ll  gain 

cc  Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day 
doth  borrow. 

“Good  bye ! I’llsoon  be  back.” — “Good 
bye ! ” said  she: — 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder’d 
man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where 
Arno’s  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten’d  banks,  and 
still  doth  fan 

Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the 
bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.  Sick 
and  wan 

The  brothers’facesin  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo’s  flush  with  love. — They 
pass’d  the  water 

Into  a forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love 
cease ; 2 1 

2 A 


Ah ! when  a soul  doth  thus  its  freedom 
win, 

It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of 
such  sin : 

They  dipp’d  their  swords  in  the 
water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  con- 
vulsed spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a murderer. 

XXIX 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden 
speed, 

Lorenzo  had  ta’en  ship  for  foreign 
lands, 

Becauseof  some  great  urgency  and  need 

In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty 
hands. 

Poor  Girl ! put  on  thy  stifling  widow’s 
weed, 

And  ’scape  at  once  from  Hope’s 
accursed  bands; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to- 
morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a day  of 
sorrow. 

XXX 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came 
on, 

And  then,  instead  of  love,  O misery ! 

She  brooded  o’er  the  luxury  alone : 

22 


His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem’d  to 
see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a gentle 
moan, 

Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the 
air, 

And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring, 
cc  Where  ? O where  ? ” 


XXXI 

But  Selfishness, Love’s  cousin, held  not 
long 

Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and 
hung 

U pon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 

Not  long — for  soon  into  her  heart  a 
throng 

Of  higher  occupants,  a richer  zest, 

Came  tragic;  passion  not  to  be  sub- 
dued, 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels 
rude. 

XXXII 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their 
eves 

The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from 
far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 

Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a 
roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the 
leaves,  23 


I o make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to 
stray 

From  his  north  cavern.  So  sweet 
Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

XXXIII 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.  Often- 
times 

She  ask’d  her  brothers,  with  an  eye 
all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon 
climes 

Could  keep  him  off* so  long?  They 
spake  a tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.  Their 
crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a smoke  from 
Hinnom’s  vale ; 

And  every nightin  dreamsthey groan’d 
aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy 
shroud. 

XXXIV 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 

But  for  a thing  more  deadly  dark 
than  all ; 

It  came  like  a fierce  potion,  drunk  by 
chance, 

Which  saves  a sick  man  from  the 
feather’d  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments;  like 
a lance,  24 


Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy 
hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him 
again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and 
brain. 

xxxv 

It  was  a vision. — In  the  drowsy  gloom, 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch’s 
foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept;  the  forest 
tomb 

Had  marr’d  his  glossy  hair,  which 
once  could  shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips, and  taken  the  soft  lute 

F rom  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed 
ears 

Had  made  a miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale 
shadow  spake ; 

For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous 
tongue, 

„ To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 
And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung : 

Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous 
shake, 

AsinapalsiedDruid’sharpunstrung; 

And  through  it  moan’d aghostly  under- 
song, 

Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral 
briars  among.  25 


XXXVII 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy 
bright 

With  love, and  kept  all  phantom  fear 
aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their 

light,. 

The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid 
woof 

Of  the  late  darken’d  time, — the  mur- 
derous spite 

Of  pride  and  avarice, — the  dark  pine 
roof 

In  the  forest, — and  the  sodden  turfed 
dell, 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs 
he  fell. 

XXXVIII 

Saying  moreover,  “Isabel,  my  sweet! 

“Red  whortle-berries  droop  above 
my  head, 

“And  a large  flint-stone  weighs  upon 
my  feet ; 

“ Around  me  beeches  and  high  chest- 
nuts shed 

“ T hei  r leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ->  a sheep- 
fold  bleat 

“Comes  from  beyondtherivertomy 
bed : 

“Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather- 
bloom, 

“And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the 
tomb.  26 


XXXIX 

CCI  am  a shadow  now,  alas ! alas ! 

“Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature 
dwelling 

“ Alone  : I chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

“While  little  soundsof  life  areround 
me  knelling, 

“And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward 
pass, 

“And  many  a chapel  bell  the  hour  is 
telling, 

“Paining  me  through:  those  sounds 
grow  strange  to  me, 

“And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL 

“ I know  what  was,  I feel  full  well  what 
is’ 

“And  I should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go 
mad ; 

“Though  I forget  the  taste  of  earthly 
bliss, 

“That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as 
though  I had 

“A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

“To  be  my  spouse:  thy  paleness 
makes  me  glad ; 

“Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I 
feel 

“A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence 
steal.” 

XLI 

The  Spirit  mourn’d  “Adieu!” — dis- 
solv’d, and  left  27 


The  atom  darkness  in  a slow  tur- 
moil; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep 
bereft, 

Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruit- 
less toil, 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up 
and  boil: 

It  made  sad  Isabella’s  eyelids  ache, 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  upawake ; 

XLII 

“Ha!  ha!”  said  she,  “I  knew  not  this 
hard  life, 

“I  thought  the  worst  was  simple 
misery ; 

“I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or 
with  strife 

“ Portion’d  us — happy  days,  or  else  to 
die; 

“ B ut  there  is  crime — a brother’s  bloody 
knife ! 

“Sweet Spirit, thou  hast  school’d  my 
infancy : 

“I’ll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine 
eyes, 

“And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the 
skies.” 

XLIII 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had 
devised 

How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest 


How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly 
prized, 

And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsur- 
mised, 

While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream 
would  try. 

Resolv’d,  she  took  with  her  an  aged 
nurse, 

And  wentinto  that  dismalforest-hearse. 

XL1V 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 

How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged 
Dame, 

And, afterlookinground  the  champaign 
wide, 

Shows  her  a knife. — “What  feverous 
hectic  flame 

“Burnsinthee,  child? — Whatgoodcan 
thee  betide, 

“That  thou  should’st  smile  again  ? ” 
— The  evening  came, 

And  they  had  found  Lorenzo’s  earthy 
bed; 

The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his 
head. 

XLV 

Who  hath  not  loiter’d  in  a green  church- 
yard> 

And  let  his  spirit,  like  a demon-mole, 

W ork  through  the  clayey  soiland  gravel 
hard,  29 


To  see  skull,  coffin’d  bones,  and 
funeral  stole ; 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death 
hath  marr’d, 

Andfillingitonce  more  with  human 
soul  ? 

Ah ! this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI 

She  gaz’d  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould, 
as  though 

One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets 
tell; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would 
know 

Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem’d  to 
grow, 

Like  to  a native  lily  of  the  dell ; 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden  she 
began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers 
can. 

XLVII 

Soon  she  turn’d  up  a soiled  glove,  where- 
on 

Her  silk  had  play’d  in  purple  phan- 
tasies, 

She  kiss’d  it  with  a lip  more  chill  than 
stone, 

And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it 
dries  30 


And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 
Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  in- 
fant’s cries : 

Then  ’gan  she  work  again ; nor  stay’d 
her  care, 

But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling 
hair. 

XLVIII 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  won- 
dering, 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 

At  sight  of  such  a dismal  labouring, 
And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks 
all  hoar, 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid 
thing: 

Three  hours  they  laboured  at  this 
travail  sore ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the 
grave, 

And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX 

Ah!  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circum- 
stance? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so 
long  ? 

O for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 
The  simple  plaining  of  a minstrel’s 
song! 

Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a glance, 
For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  H.MW  S 


To  speak: — O turn  thee  to  the  very 
tale, 

And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 

L 

With  duller  steel  than  the  Persian 
sword 

T hey  cut  away  no  formless  monster’s 
head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  ac- 
cord 

With  death  as  life.  The  ancient  harps 
have  said, 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal 
Lord : 

If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 

Pale  Isabella  kiss’d  it,  and  low  moan’d. 

’Twas  love;  cold, — dead  indeed,  but 
not  dethroned. 

LI 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 

And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm’d  its  wild  hair  with  a golden 
comb, 

And  all  around  each  eye’s  sepulchral 
cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash ; the  smeared 
loam 

With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a dripping 
well, 

She  drench’d  away: — and  still  she 
combed,  and  kept 

Sighingallday — and  still  she  kiss’d, and 
wept.  33 

3 


LII 

Then  in  a silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the 
dews 

Of  precious  flowers  pluck’d  in 
Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous 
ooze 

Through  the  cold  serpent  pipe  re- 
freshfully, — 

She  wrapp’d  it  up ; and  for  its  tomb  did 
choose 

A garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it 

And  covered  it  with  mould,  and  o’er  it 

set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever 
wet. 

LIII 

And  she  forgot  the  stars, the  moon, and 
sun, 

And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the 
trees, 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters 
run, 

And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn 
breeze ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was 
done, 

And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not : but 
in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 

And  moisten’d  it  with  tears  unto  the 

3+ 


core. 


LIV 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick, and  green, and  beauti- 
ful it  grew, 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its 
peers 

OfBasil-tuftsin Florence;  foritdrew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human 
fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there 
shut  from  view ; 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth  and  in  perfumed  leaflets 
spread. 

LV 

O Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile ! 

O Music,  Music,  breathe  despond- 
ingly ! 

O Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O 
sigh ! 

Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and 
smile ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits, 
heavily, 

And  make  a pale  light  in  your  cypress 
glooms, 

Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble 
tombs. 

LVI 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpo- 
mene! 35 


Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order 
g°> 

And  touch  the  strings  into  a mystery ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and 
low ; 

For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead : She  withers,  like  a 
palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVII 

O leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself ; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying 
hour! — 

It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual 
shower 

From  her  dead  eyes ; and  many  a curi- 
ous elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder’d  that 
such  dower 

Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown 
aside 

Byone  mark’d  out  to  be  a Noble’s  bride. 

LVIII 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  won- 
der’d much 

Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil 
green, 

And  why  it  flourish’d,  as  by  magic 
touch ; 

Greatly  they  wonder’d  what  the 
thing  might  mean  : 36 


They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that 
such 

A very  nothing  would  have  power  to 
wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  plea- 
sures gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love’s 
delay. 

LIX 

Therefore  they  watch’d  a time  when 
they  might  sift 

This  hidden  whim;  and  long  they 
watch’d  in  vain ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 

And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger- 
pain  ; 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back  as 
swift 

As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs 
again ; 

And,  patient  as  a hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her 
hair. 

LX 

Yet  they  contriv’d  to  steal  the  Basil- 
p0t’ 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 

The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid 
spot, 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo’s 
face : 

The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had 

g°L  37 


And  so  left  Florence  in  a moment’s 

space, 

Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they 
went, 

With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banish- 
ment. 

LXI 

O Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

O Music,  Music,  breathe  despond- 
ingly! 

O Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O 
sigh ! 

Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  ccWell-a 
way ! ” 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die ; 

Will  die  a death  too  lone  and  incom- 
plete, 

Now  they  have  ta’en  away  her  Basil 
sweet. 

LXII 

Piteous  she  look’d  on  dead  and  senseless 
things, 

Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously: 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the 
strings 

Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes 
would  cry 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings, 

ToaskhimwhereherBasilwas;  and 
why 

’Twas  hid  from  her:  “For  cruel  ’tis,” 
said  she,  38 


ccTo  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me.” 

LXIII 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  for- 
lorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 

No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did 
mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 

And  a sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all 
the  country  pass’d : 

Still  is  the  burthen  sung — “O  cruelty, 

“ To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me ! ” 


NOTE 


JOHN  KEATS , 1796-182I 

In  Isabella ; or  the  Pot  0/  Basil  we  have  one  0/  the 
maturest poems  written  by  this  poet  0/ Beauty. 

It  is  based  on  Philemon' s Story  in  Boccaccio' s 
“ Decameron and  was  written  by  Keats  while  at 
Teignmouth , two  years  before  his  death.  The  poet 
was  then  in  his  twenty  fourth  year. 


PRINTED  BY  NEILL  AND  CO.,  LTD.,  EDINBURGH. 


